


Let me think of you

by Aethelar



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (or about as fluffy as i ever get), Fluff, M/M, Past Character Death, Retirementlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 11:21:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1264585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelar/pseuds/Aethelar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I’m thinking of getting a dog,” he told the fields conversationally. “Or a cat, perhaps, but I always saw you as more of a dog person.” A gentle breeze picked up, tousling his hair. He closed his eyes and imagined that it was a hand, his lips quirking into a smile.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“It would be good to have some company again. The old place has been far too quiet since you left.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Let me think of you

He was old. Tired. His skin was wrinkled and his joints ached with every step, reminding him that he was too old and tired, really, to be traipsing the Sussex countryside in such a manner. He stopped to catch his breath and grimaced at the mud sticking to his leather shoes and staining the cream trousers he wore.

 _Old man shoes_ , a part of his mind said. _Old man trousers_. It didn’t say a thousand other secrets that the worn shoes and faded trousers could have imparted, but it didn’t have to.

He laughed bitterly, and it turned into a deep, hacking cough that shook his stooped frame. “I am an old man, you silly fool,” he wheezed to no one in particular.

When he had caught his breath, he took another step forwards, slowly and carefully, mindful of his limp and the chance of his cane slipping in the mud. In his mind, he heard a memory from a lifetime ago – _it’s psychosomatic, you missed this feeling, this is what you do_ – but he paid it no heed.

The sun was high in the sky and he had to stop again only a few minutes later, fumble in his pockets for a handkerchief and mop his brow. The delicate silk was monogrammed in one corner with the initials _W.S.S.H_ , and he paused for a moment to run his thumb over the embroidery. It was only for a moment though; even as old as he was, he had not lost the self-discipline of his younger days. He folded the handkerchief as precisely as his arthritic hands would allow and resumed his steps.

The familiar tree stump, when he reached it, was a welcome site. He allowed a slow smile to spread across his face as stood, content to just look at it and listen to the birdsong and the low thrumming of the bees. The voice in his head was strangely silent, but he didn’t mind.

Finally, he sighed, and made his way to the patch of grassy earth he knew to be the most comfortable. It was an effort to lower himself to the floor and he could not quite keep the pain from showing on his face.

“I’m thinking of getting a dog,” he told the fields conversationally. “Or a cat, perhaps, but I always saw you as more of a dog person.” A gentle breeze picked up, tousling his hair. He closed his eyes and imagined that it was a hand, his lips quirking into a smile.

“It would be good to have some company again. The old place has been far too quiet since you left.” He kept his eyes closed, and in his mind he heard a petulant voice reminding him, again, that it hadn’t left out of choice.

“I know,” he whispered. His smile was sad and distant, but it was still a smile, still an improvement on what he had been able to manage before. No one had seen him smile for a long time, not since… Not since the diagnosis, really.

He had been angry at first. He had told them that they were wrong, demanded someone else’s opinion, refused to believe the truth. In the end, his own mind betrayed him, interpreting the symptoms he didn’t want to see and coming to the conclusion he didn’t want to hear.

“But still,” he said, drawing his mind back to the present. “A dog. What do you think of a bulldog? I’d take care of it, don’t worry.” He wheezed out what might once have been a laugh, years ago, before his lungs grew old and weak. Telling his husband not to worry… He could see him now, hear his voice as he rattled off in quick succession the reasons why worry was an entirely reasonable reaction.

“It would be nice,” he insisted to the empty field. “And it wouldn’t get in the way of the experiments because there haven’t _been_ any experiments in the kitchen for years now.” His heart ached strangely at that, and he could hardly believe that he missed the random body parts in the fridge or the late-night-early-mornings spent waiting for a reaction that may or may not ever happen.

“No cases, see,” he explained, voice inexplicably hoarse. “Not without you.” He swallowed roughly and tried to push aside the feeling of concern radiating from the voice in his mind.

“I _tried_ , you have to believe that I tried.” Something cracked in his tone and his chest was tight in a way that heralded a coughing fit, but he pushed it back. “I just… I can’t do it on my own. I can’t see the things I saw when I was with you, I can’t.” It hurt to admit his failings, but it was an old wound. His breath rattled and he allowed himself to descend into coughs, leaning forwards and hugging his chest as though that would stop his ribcage flying apart.

“You always were the better of us.”

He was silent for a long minute, lost in memories as he stared at the tree stump. It was all he had left; the body had been donated for scientific research, of course, and the grave with its plain headstone felt cold and empty. There were no memories to be found in the back garden of a sleepy church in Sussex, no breathless laughs and gentle touches, no kisses tasting of overly ripe cherries and too much cream.

“Anyway, I thought I should ask you about the dog.” He blinked slowly, drawing his gaze away and looking out over the fields again. “You liked being asked about things.”

The voice in his mind was quiet, but he hadn’t really expected it to speak. He leaned back on the grass, lying down and allowing himself to listen to the bees and pretend that nothing had changed.

“I’ll bring him with me next time I visit,” he promised. “He’ll like you, I’m sure.”

His lips curled into a quiet smile and his eyes slid lazily closed. He had nothing to do and nowhere else to be; he could stay with his memories a while longer.

It was nice, to finally be able to remember the good ones.

The bees buzzed and the wind rustled through his old man clothes, and he dreamed of his husband and was at peace.

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetad, as per usual. I'm curious to know which of the two you thought this was (or if you think it's someone else entirely?) - let me know in the comments!
> 
> Also, I have a tumblr! Come find me at [aethelar.tumblr.com](http://aethelar.tumblr.com)


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